


tourniquet

by dozmuffinxc



Series: catch me as i fall [2]
Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: F/F, Gen, Healing Magic, Massage, Mild Blood, Post-Race, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-12
Updated: 2018-10-12
Packaged: 2019-07-29 23:35:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16274681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dozmuffinxc/pseuds/dozmuffinxc
Summary: When she stepped around to get a better look at the cut, Hurley’s heart fell at the sight of fresh blood welling up from the torn flesh. It was hardly the worst wound she’d seen, but a wave of nausea rolled over her as she braced herself on the workbench for a moment and squeezed her eyes shut against the feeling.





	tourniquet

They left their masks on until they were fully out of sight of the race track, far from the prying eyes that would know the real identities of the new battle wagon champions, but as soon as they rounded the corner that would lead to Sloane’s garage, Hurley pulled hers off with a sigh of relief and wiped at the thick sheen of sweat on her forehead.

“That. Was. _Amazing_!”

Hurley hadn’t stopped smiling since the race began, and although her jaw ached and her shoulders sagged with exhaustion, she couldn’t squash her foolish grin. She was almost afraid to look up at Sloane for fear that the half-elf thought she was ridiculous; Hurley didn’t think she could handle a look of condemnation, not in her current state.

A deep, resounding belly laugh caught her by surprise. Sloane had fallen behind and was now several feet back, doubled over in a fit of what Hurley could only describe as giggles. When she finally straightened and caught up with Hurley, Sloane pulled off her own mask and beamed down at her with eyes damp from mirth.

“Not amazing,” she said, sweeping matted strands of hair from her forehead with dirt-begrimed fingers, “ _incredible_. And you!” Sloane reached over and punched Hurley’s shoulder playfully. “You’re a mad woman!”

“Hark who’s talking,” Hurley replied, fighting back a blush. “I can’t believe you leaped onto that _ridiculous_ rat wagon and disabled their steering component mid-turn!”

“All’s fair in love and battle wagon racing, partner,” Sloan smiled.

As the lane narrowed, the two women moved closer to walk side-by-side, their hips touching occasionally as they traded compliments and good-natured jibes.

Back at the garage, Hurley started gathering up her few belongings to head home. She felt a tinge of regret, wishing she could think of an excuse to stay and then chastising herself for being so sentimental. 

As if she could read her mind, Sloane turned on her heels and announced, “We’re going out.”

“What? Where?”

“Anywhere,” Sloane replied, discarding her leather jacket on the workbench stool. “I know an excellent little pub where the food is cheap and the brew is strong. I wager I can out-drink you three to one, _Lieutenant_.”

Hurley sniggered. “I’ll have you know the last person to make that bet is still slumped over on a bar stool on High Street.”

“You’re on,” Sloane said, chuckling.

Hurley made her way over to the garage sink to wash her face. She didn’t have a change of clothes, but she had a feeling that Sloane’s bar was the kind of place where the patrons wouldn’t look twice at a dusty, grease-streaked halfling. 

When she looked up from the sink, Sloane was peeling her tunic off one-handed with an air of practice, revealing an expanse of bare skin that made Hurley duck her face to hide her surprise.

“I’ll only be a minute,” Sloane was saying. “This thing is disgusting, and I just want t--- ow!”

All pretense of modesty was abandoned when Hurley heard the other woman’s cry of pain. She rushed to Sloane’s side just as the half-elf dropped the tunic to the floor, and before she could hide the grisly sight, Hurley saw a raw, red gash at least a foot long stretching downward in an angry line from Sloane’s right shoulder blade.

“What the hell,” Hurley growled, ducking behind Sloane to get a better look. “Did those rat-faced fuckers do this to you?”

“Probably,” Sloane replied reluctantly, trying to shoo Hurley away. “I felt one of them land a blow as I was jumping back to our wagon. It’s nothing!”

“It isn’t _nothing_ ,” Hurley growled, guiding Sloane firmly to a stool. “Sit,” she insisted, and to her surprise, Sloane obeyed. 

When she stepped around to get a better look at the cut, Hurley’s heart fell at the sight of fresh blood welling up from the torn flesh. It was hardly the worst wound she’d seen, but a wave of nausea rolled over her as she braced herself on the workbench for a moment and squeezed her eyes shut against the feeling.

“Everything all right back there?”

“Sit still,” Hurley replied, her voice only slightly shaky, and she pressed a hand to the unmarked flesh of Sloane’s left shoulder to keep the half-elf from turning around.

Warm tendrils of magic collected around her fingers as Hurley positioned her hands around the edges of the wound. Sloane’s muscles tensed for a moment as tendrils of power crept into the gash and the skin began to slowly knit itself back together. Hurley knew it could be an unpleasant feeling, so she used her fingertips to rub tiny circles into Sloane’s back, guiding the magic into the worst of the cut and then probing the wound with her mind to make sure there would be no permanent damage. 

To her relief, it was mostly superficial, and it wasn’t long before the flow of magic reversed, retreating back into Hurley’s hands where it dissolved with a satisfying tingle of resolution. Pleased with the results, she had begun to step back when Sloane’s voice caught her by surprise.

“Don’t stop,” she said, her voice strangely thick and softer than usual. “It’s… it’s nice.”

Hurley froze.

“You’re all healed,” she replied slowly, her hands hovering in the air between them. “Do you… are you still in pain?”

Sloane’s back stiffened as she turned on the stool to face Hurley, her mouth set in a thin line.

“No,” she said, and Hurley knew that she wasn’t imagining the dark shade of regret in her voice. “I’m fine. Thank you.”

 _Oh,_ Hurley thought. 

“Of course,” Hurley interjected, speaking quickly, “most people don’t realize the therapeutic benefits of massage to the healing process.”

“Really,” Sloane replied, her tone skeptical. Nevertheless, the ghost of a smile played at her lips and her jaw seemed to relax minutely.

“Oh, yes,” Hurley exclaimed, lacing her fingers together in front of her and cracking her knuckles impressively. “If we’re going to have you in fit form for next week’s race, you’d better let me tend to the--- the residual damage in the muscles.”

“Residual damage, eh,” Sloane repeated, her eyes glittering in a way that made Hurley’s heart skip a beat. “Well, if you insist.”

“I am the professional, after all,” Hurley said, a broad grin spreading unbidden across her face.

Sloane turned back around on the stool, resting her elbows on her knees and letting out a long, low breath that she seemed to have been holding in for some time. Hurley took her position at her back and slowly, gently, pressed her fingertips into the tight muscles of Sloane’s neck. The tense sinews were reluctant to relax even under her practiced touch, but Hurley was undaunted. Her hands may be small, but years of training had made them dexterous and it was only a matter of a few minutes before she felt the familiar yielding of flesh under her expert ministrations.

As she moved farther down Sloane’s back, the repetitive motions made it easier for Hurley’s mind to wander. Beneath her fingers, Sloane’s back opened up to her like a map, the smooth topography of dusky flesh marred by a network of scars that didn’t shock her so much as they evoked a deep desire to avenge each blow that had formed them. To Hurley’s healer mind, each mark told a story. 

Here was one that was made quite recently – no more than 2 months old, at most – by a jagged blade that seemed to have raked the skin in an upward motion along the ridges of her ribcage below her armpit. The ripples of a burn healed over shimmered palely on her right shoulder blade, most likely from contact with overheated metal. But it was the thick scar tissue of a puncture wound about an inch in diameter just shy of her right kidney that made sirens scream in Hurley’s mind. The mark was at least 12 years old, and judging by its hypertrophic nature, had healed over what was originally an infected wound.

“Occupational hazards,” Sloane murmured, her voice low and languorous shocking Hurley out of her uncomfortable reverie.

Rather than reply, Hurley traced a pattern of light, sweeping spirals down her spine and felt a rush of warmth expand in her chest as Sloane hummed her approval.

“I could get used to this,” Sloane said, arching her back against the pressure of the brisk percussive taps that Hurley sent cascading along her shoulders.

“Better watch out,” Hurley replied, surveying her work one last time, “or I may start charging.”

As she stepped away from the stool, Hurley’s fingertips tingled with residual magic and a faint, golden glow faded slowly from Sloane’s back. This was different from her healing magic, something softer and somehow more intimate; it was as if her ki had pressed itself beyond the boundaries of her own body unbidden, and for a moment, Hurley could feel Sloane’s heart beat pulsing next to her own.

“You okay?”

Hurley blinked. Sloane had turned all the way around on her stool and was eyeing her with a look of mild concern.

“Yeah, I’m good,” Hurley said, forcing a laugh, “I guess I’m just tired. Maybe I could get a rain check on that drink?”

“Oh,” Sloane said, “of course. Get some rest. Busy day of apprehending criminals tomorrow; must be at your best.”

“I’ll be fine so long as that Raven character doesn’t get any big ideas,” Hurley replied, winking.

“Are you asking me to go easy on you,” Sloane asked, her eyes twinkling.

“Never,” Hurley said.

And she meant it.


End file.
